


i wrote you into my verse

by mrecookies



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scripps moves in with Posner, and they make things work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wrote you into my verse

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [I wrote you into my verse/我将你写进了我的诗](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912845) by [lonelyhunterc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyhunterc/pseuds/lonelyhunterc)



> For [this prompt](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/412767.html?thread=67394143#t67394143) at _comment_fic_ : first declaration of love.
> 
> This was meant to be a short little thing but it got out of control! First History Boys fic ever akjfh I JUST LOVE THEM.

He plans it down to the last detail. The pages of his old notebooks, the one from the old days when everything was much simpler, have little notes scribbled in the margins next to snippets, phrases, observations, and definitions. It's the one place, Scripps thinks, that Posner won't think to look.

*

"Your desk is a mess," Posner says one evening, his mouth twisted into a pout. "It's destroying the aesthetic of my home."

(Posner's cottage is a neat one, a place that he calls his sanctuary. It might be a good word to use, since Scripps tends to think that Posner views himself rather as one of the gargoyles at Notre-Dame. An adult Posner is a disillusioned one; the piano in the little living room hasn't been touched for ages, and, Scripps suspects, the same can be said for Posner. Gone is the unusual boy from Cutler's. Posner now is a haunted fellow, silent and brooding instead of bursting with snatches of Gracie Fields and Edith Piaf, the innocence in his eyes faded to a dim shadow.

Posner's cottage is a neat one, but ever since Scripps arrived for a visit and nudged their friendship back on the tracks of something familiar, it has an underlying current of messiness. A subtle invasion of the journalist with a half-finished novel.)

Scripps snorts and continues scribbling into his newest notebook, the cream page filling with his cramped handwriting. "It's my desk," he answers mildly. "Say, how does that song go again? That Streisand tune, with Donna Summers."

Posner shoots him a look, as if to say that he knows what Scripps is doing. (Scripps hides nothing. He is not a great one for subtlety. Mostly.) He folds himself into the armchair, sips his tea, and dutifully sings.

*

The novel has plagued him since the first month in London. It sprouted out of a conversation Scripps had while drunk off his rocker with Dakin at a pub. He still has the scraps of paper with the original idea semi-lucidly scrawled onto it tucked into the notebook for that year.

"What's it about?" Posner asks, voice quiet as Scripps announces that he's done looking at his computer for the night.

"You could read it, you know," Scripps says, jabbing a tired finger at the darkened screen.

Posner pauses, thinking. Scripps moves to join him on the sofa, cold hands burying into the blankets and sweaters covering Posner's chest.

"I don't like reading unfinished books," he says. He looks down at the glass of wine in his hands and frowns. "Everything must have an ending."

(Scripps has not been there for the majority of the breakdowns, prior to moving in. He has seen three: two before, and one after. The latter happened almost six months ago.)

Warmed up to a degree, Scripps's fingers find the delicate paleness of Posner's wrists and curve around them. Posner's pulse beats under the pads of his thumbs.

"It's a bit about you," Scripps says. Posner's eyes are incredibly green. He lets go before Posner spills the wine.

*

One day, Scripps returns home to find Posner curled up in bed with a reddish nose and two boxes of tissues. A mug of tea sits on the bedside table, and about half the sweaters both of them own are piled onto the blankets.

He is reading the scrapbook.

(The scrapbook Scripps found after a fortnight in Posner's cottage scared him a little. Posner keeps track of the Cutler boys, snipping out news of their achievements and writing the dates down in his steady penmanship. There is an unflattering photograph of Scripps from an online article that reappears every time Scripps tries to destroy it.)

"I haven't added anything in a while," Posner says, through a stuffed nose and a cough.

Scripps lets his satchel drop to the floor, and steps closer. "Dakin's still a smug prick," he says, pointing at a picture of said smug prick. "Heard Akthar's got a new kid. Timm's old lady's found out about the drugs."

Posner flicks to the start of the book, his fingers ghosting over the aged photograph. "Pass the parcel," he croaks, and Scripps squeezes his shoulder. "I remember everything, but I don't think I've done what he said beyond that."

"You're not useless, Pos," Scripps murmurs into Posner's hair. He's got a fever coming on, Scripps notes, and gently takes the book away. "You're perfectly well."

*

When Christmastime comes around, the cottage is much brighter. Posner is still a tad annoyed by the amount of lights Scripps has taken upon himself to decorate the place with, but he's grudgingly admitted that the house looks rather beautiful.

(Scripps was delighted when Posner deigned to go tree-hunting with him, and even more so when, a week later, Posner initiated a snowball fight in the yard.)

On Christmas Eve, they end up on the sofa after a particularly filling dinner, with Mozart playing in the background. Posner is draped over Scripps, his lean figure poking elbows into Scripps's sides as he shifts to make himself comfortable, until Scripps, fed up, snags him by the waist and starts reciting Auden.

(There is a game they play. One of them starts with a line or two from a poem, play, or novel. And the other continues with another few lines from a different text, with a vaguely similar theme. There are no winners, except _words_ , as the old headmaster once said disparagingly, affectedly, at a funeral.)

*

Somehow, it's been a year since the moving in. Scripps doesn't mark the date down as something special, mostly because his relationship with Posner had started rekindling months before on a visit to Posner's sad little cottage.

He gets home as per usual. The satchel ends up slumping next to Posner's bookcase; the shelves are roughly divided between Posner's classic poetry anthologies and Scripps's contemporary literature collection. A dictionary totters on the edge when Scripps accidentally bumps against it, and he sets it right with a faint feeling of disquiet.

"Pos?" Scripps calls out, as he loosens his tie.

"Kitchen," comes the reply, thankfully, before Scripps rushes to the bedroom to check if Posner's alright. Posner smiles up at him when he enters the small space. "I think the pasta's almost ready."

(They take turns to cook. Their first meal together was the night Scripps moved in. They had ravioli. It was undercooked, and Posner had stiffened in his seat before muttering an apology, red bleeding into his cheeks. Scripps ruffled his hair absently as he went into the kitchen to make pancakes and that was that.)

Scripps eyes the boiling spaghetti doubtfully, earning himself a huff. A cooling strand is plucked out and handed to him to check, and Scripps grins at Posner. "It's ready now."

Posner shoves him aside with a chuckle.

*

"I think I like you here with me," Posner says one night.

(They share a bed, because it's economical. Posner complains that Scripps hogs the blankets, but Scripps retorts that Posner's feet are perpetually made of ice. They don't really talk about the nights when one of them wakes up with the other practically wrapped around his body.)

Scripps does not have his notebook. It is somewhere in his desk with the half-finished novel and the computer. He can't see clearly without his glasses, and the lights are out anyway. His fingers find Posner's hand.

"I think," Posner says, still facing the ceiling, "I think I'd like you to stay here for as long as possible."

Scripps breathes in and out, mind rushing through half-remembered snippets of definitions, and a blurred image of his own handwriting.

"Scripps?" And then: "Don?"

He tugs Posner's hand until they're facing each other in the dark, cheeks warm against the pillows. Licking his lips, Scripps whispers, "Some say love's a little boy, and some say it's a bird."

Posner huffs, breath smelling of mint and a touch of chocolate from dessert. Scripps leans in to kiss his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Scripps quotes at the end is Auden's [O Tell Me The Truth About Love](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/o-tell-me-the-truth-about-love/) because I think certain lines in there can be seen as reference to the play/movie and some parts of this fic :)
> 
> Title from Bastille's song "Poet".


End file.
